Lassiter Meets The Pineapple
by Loafer
Summary: CRACKFIC. No pairings but implied Shules. This is for That Special Someone who thinks we should all be meaner to Det. Lassiter. One-shot.


**Disclaimer**: no rights claimed to _**psych**_.  
**Rating**: T

**Summary, or author's note really**: I wrote this crackfic for an unpleasant girl who descended upon _psych_ fanfiction writers in recent weeks. She has left anonymous and very nasty comments on many writers' stories (not just Lassiets, which she hates the most, but also Karltons, Shassies and more). She has left nasty comments (on Shules stories too) in both my name and Lawson227's. She's even gone the extra mile to leave nasty comments in Spanish. She's been very _very_ busy! One of her chief criticisms of the stories we Lassiet-iers write is that while we make an effort to portray Shawn as he is in the show (which she hates), she thinks we're just being 'mean' to him, and aren't hard enough on Lassiter. She complains about this even when Shawn isn't IN our stories, and has left two comments I know of where she expressed her happiness at the idea of Lassiter dead. If you're thinking "nut job," well, join the club. Still, I wrote this for her, yes I did. (Too bad I neither read nor accept anonymous comments, and I've already blocked two of her registered accounts. I'll just have to _believe_ she'll be pleased with my efforts.)

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Detective Carlton Lassiter wallowed in his own misery day after day.

He masked the pain of his inadequacy by being snarky and bad-tempered at work. He stomped on everyone's feelings, no exceptions, across the board, because he had no feelings of his own—except bad ones.

He couldn't solve a case by himself. Neither could O'Hara, but she was always in a good mood and didn't seem to mind that… that man… that _man-child_… kept waltzing in and showing them up.

The entire department simply waited, week after week, for Spencer to come around and show them his awesome powers.

They didn't work any other investigations. Not parking tickets, and certainly no assaults, burglaries, or robberies. No home invasions, no drug busts, no gang-related activity. Spencer had solved 100 cases in seven years, which worked out to only a little over one per month, so there simply wasn't anything else for anyone to do for days at a time, and they _couldn't_ work on those other matters (the parking tickets, assaults, burglaries, robberies, home invasions, drug busts and gang-related activity) because everyone had to be ready at a moment's notice to assist with the one murder investigation per month which Spencer would solve for them.

Now, there _was_ plenty of crime in Santa Barbara, but the police force was completely helpless, from Carlton Lassiter on down—no, from Chief Vick on down—without Shawn Spencer to guide them to the correct conclusion.

So Lassiter, cranky by nature, became even crankier as the years went by.

One day, Guster came in by himself to pick up a check for yet another case Shawn had solved flawlessly (and immediately) without wrongly accusing even one person—just like _always_—and Lassiter growled at him.

"Detective Lassiter," Guster said pleasantly. "How are you this fine day?"

Lassiter growled again. "Where's your significant other?"

Guster took no offense. "He's at the library. He's quite the reader, you know." Before Lassiter could scoff, he frowned. "Oh, I just remembered I have to get a new credit card."

"Oh my God. Why the hell do you put up with that crap, Guster?"

He blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Why do you let him keep abusing your friendship and your trust like that? How many times is he going to steal your card and make you pick up the tab for his toys before you get tired of it?"

Guster was genuinely surprised. "But Lassie, he's not abusing anything. I don't mind paying for _anything_ he wants."

Lassiter stared at him in shock. "The _hell_?"

"I consider it an honor to let Shawn have free access to my credit card." When he noticed Lassiter's continuing puzzlement, he explained, "Shawn wouldn't steal from me if he didn't consider me his best friend."

He blinked. "Uh, he screwed around with _my_ credit information once but it didn't make me think he considered _me_ his friend."

"Oh, he was just playing around," Guster soothed him. "The thing is—"

"And once he stuck me with a $1,600 bill for charges he made to my hotel room during a case. Was he just playing around then too? Don't seem to recall him paying me back."

"You're not looking at it the right way. Listen. Shawn is a sweet-natured, loving man. He would never do anything to hurt anyone. The fact that he always uses my credit card—even to pay for trips to Canada—just means he trusts me completely. Don't you see what a privilege that is?"

Lassiter realized he was talking to a true believer. "You're saying his abuse is something you… _appreciate_."

"Yes!" He beamed.

"You're on crack, Guster."

"I do _not_ do drugs."

"Maybe you should," he muttered, and went back to his desk.

Chief Vick came out, outwardly as in charge and unruffled as ever. "Detective Lassiter."

"Yes, Chief?"

For one moment she let sheer desperation show. "Any cases?"

"Well, not that we can't handle on our _own_."

"Dammit!" she hissed. "What's it take to get someone murdered in this town?"

"I hear _that_."

"At least when someone gets killed and Spencer comes in, we get a few days' work out of it. A few days to look like we actually earn our salaries." She fretted. "I can't stand all this waiting. I might have to take extreme measures."

He decided not to ask (plausible deniability) if she was contemplating murder, and after a moment she stalked back to her office to pretend she had meetings and statistics and conference calls—all in a day's work when one's entire job consisted of waiting to hire Shawn Spencer to solve a crime.

Lassiter knew she was afraid that one day City Hall would figure out that the dozens of people they had on staff were mostly idle. The idea of all those good men and women—even though he despised each and every one of them, because that's the kind of guy he was—being terminated was daunting.

He considered forming his own band of mercenaries to combat crime in neighboring counties. They might even find employment opportunities here in town if they specialized in squirrel extermination.

His eyes started to gleam. He felt better.

That would _not_ do: he promptly smacked his stapler against his forehead in order to retain his bad mood.

His partner Juliet rushed over to him. "Are you okay?"

He rubbed his forehead. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it does. Except when Shawn's here, since you know I have to defer to him, like when you were nearly killed by Carl Dozier and Shawn made jokes about you being dead and I completely ignored your dizziness and probable concussion so I could get the case solved even though it was only to stop Shawn from acting like I was incompetent. Although I am," she admitted, "compared to Shawn. He's _amazing_."

"Wait a second, O'Hara. Who saved my life when we were trapped in the woods and Big Ed carried me off and the Serbs attacked? Who saved all our lives? _You_."

She blushed. "Everyone gets lucky now and then. You know I usually have to get my direction from Shawn."

"_I_ don't."

Juliet smiled gently. "Oh, Carlton, one day you'll see."

"What, O'Hara? What will I see?"

"Well, remember when you asked him what happens when he interferes in police investigations, and he said the cases get solved?"

He scowled at her. "What about it?"

"He's right!"

Sitting up straight, he glared at her. "I've saved Spencer's butt more times than either of us can count."

"True, but you know he's saved _us_ once or twice," she admonished.

"Do I call him when I'm in trouble?"

"Of course not. He calls you. It's to make you feel better."

"What?" He nearly screeched. "How many times have we both charged in with our weapons drawn to stop someone from killing him or Guster? You're saying he set those scenarios up just to make us feel better?"

"It always made _me_ feel better," she cooed.

Lassiter was appalled. "Listen to me. I was the youngest Head Detective in SBPD history."

"Yes?"

"I had the highest score on the DET until you got here."

"I know." She giggled.

"I once solved eight cases in a row without even _your_ help."

"I know. Weird, huh?"

"The Chief has left me in place as the head detective for all these years."

She nodded. "And?"

"So doesn't that stand for anything?"

"Sorry, no. Without Shawn, none of us can do anything. But relax! I'm as incompetent as you are, Carlton. Partners until the end!" She looked over her shoulder nervously. "Unless Shawn's around. Then I have to do whatever he says and look adoring."

"O'Hara, I've seen you angry at Spencer many times over the years. I saw how hurt you were by him forcing your father back into your life. Have you forgotten all the times he's made you crazy, like when he went on that reality show? Or when he was so irrationally jealous that he nearly blew our online dating case? Or how he undermined you on the Woodson investigation and demeaned you by slapping your butt in public—" He stopped, because to his surprise, she was laughing again. "What in the hell is wrong with you people?"

Juliet patted him soothingly on the arm. "There, there, Carlton. Just take it easy. One day, Shawn will reveal his true nature to you too and you'll see."

"I'd rather adopt a vegan harpist with a strong resemblance to Olympia Dukakis wearing a squirrel suit," he retorted.

"That's because you're so mean and snarky and bad-tempered!"

"Is that all?" he asked dryly.

"No—you're also incompetent like the rest of us!" She skipped away to her desk, perpetually perky.

She was right, of course. Ever since Spencer turned up like a floater in a public swimming pool, Lassiter had become unable to solve a single case. He discharged his weapon too often, he frightened citizens, he'd once shot a dead guy… he'd been hopped up on drugs twice in the last two years, shot a donut man the first time and tried to kill Guster the second time.

He was useless.

The fact that Spencer had to call on _him_ to race in, gun blazing, on a fairly regular basis? Irrelevant. The truth was that he, Carlton Lassiter, was an angry, mean man who had no redeeming value whatsoever.

Sure, he was a crack shot—had the award plaques to prove it, and took out a Serbian long-distance while downed by his own bear-trapped leg—but what did that matter? And sure, he'd brought in Chavez single-handedly. Sure, he took down Adrian Viccellio despite being drugged with chloroform. Sure, he'd stood by O'Hara during the Tancana fiasco and even during the Thane Woodson re-investigation. Yeah, yeah, he was loyal to his partner. So what. Didn't matter. So what if he'd been the one to save her on the clock tower—sacrificed his gun, no less—but none of that mattered.

Only his bitterness and anger mattered.

Nobody liked him. Okay, Sheriff Hank liked him. O'Hara even liked him, most of the time. Buzz McNab damn near worshipped him, and he didn't even want to _think_ about Woody's feelings for him. He shuddered just thinking about not thinking about _that_.

But maybe they were insane. Yeah. That could be it. Certainly they were all likable people—not that he liked them; he was too mean to like _anyone_—and not prone to irrational choices (Woody excluded), but insanity was definitely a possiblity.

Or… _he_ could be insane.

Well hell _yeah_ he was insane. Pathetic, too. Wall of Crime, squirrel fixation, the Crap List, obsessed with getting credit for his work… a thing about harpists…

But he had a right to be a little insane: one man couldn't carry the burden of being so miserable and unlikable for so long without some consequences.

He was tired of himself. So tired.

That's when it happened.

The air around him seemed to shimmer… the station took on a brightness, an almost otherworldly glow…

"Crap," he muttered. "Spencer's here again."

Far-off music began to play, and the scent of pineapple and Axe—and was that a hint of fresh chimichanga?—filled the air.

There was a palpable _hum_ of positive energy all around him.

"Because he can't just _walk_ in like everyone else," Lassiter groused.

Faeries fluttered along the columns, casting them in a golden light; sparkles seemed to follow every note of music from an unseen choir of angels.

From down by Booking—watched in awe by Sergeants Allen and McNab—Shawn Spencer floated into the station.

Lassiter rubbed his temples wearily. "Every. Damn. Time."

Spencer was reclining comfortably, as if carried by invisible footmen. His hair gel seemed to reflect a rainbow of colors around the room, and his skin was the purest, most unblemished flesh-tone anyone had ever seen.

Smiling graciously at the agog station personnel, he floated down the hall to a spot near Lassiter's desk.

"Lassie," he said mellifluously.

"Spencer."

"I have come to show you The Way."

"I know the way, Spencer. It's back the way you came."

"Oh, Lassie," Spencer said sadly. "You need my help."

"I need a shot of whiskey."

"You may indeed need that, but mostly, you need my help."

Lassiter threw a pencil at him; it bounced off Spencer harmlessly and wafted off to land gently on O'Hara's desk.

"Oh, sweet Lassi-saurus. Why must you be so full of rage?" Still his voice was gentle.

"It's what I do, Spencer. Now get lost."

"I will not. I cannot." He made a subtle hand gesture and his unseen carriers adjusted him to a standing position, although his feet did not touch the floor. "I am going to help you _see_."

Looking up at him, his head throbbing, Lassiter felt nothing but anger and misery.

In short, he felt normal.

Then Spencer did something unexpected: he touched Lassiter's head.

"Soft hair," he commented.

Lassiter, oddly, did not shoot him.

With his other hand, Spencer produced a gleaming, diamond-encrusted pineapple.

"Look into The Pineapple Of Bling," he said simply.

"I will not."

"Yes, Lassie, sweet sweet Lassiraptor. Look deep into the pineapple." He pressed against the side of Lassiter's head, effortlessly turning him to face the pineapple directly.

"I don't want to," Lassiter tried.

"You must." So gentle and melodious was Spencer's voice that it soothed the jagged edges of Lassiter's very nature.

Spencer, keeping Lassiter's head still somehow, began to softly croon "Everybody Wants To Rule The World."

It was…. hypnotic.

Lassiter felt himself drifting as he stared at the shining pineapple, The Pineapple Of Bling.

Pretty and rainbow-y lights reflected off its wondrous surface, and as Spencer sang softly, The Pineapple Of Bling seemed to expand and retract, keeping Lassiter's attention fixed as he tried to absorb the image.

Behind Spencer, station personnel and a cadre of faeries gathered, harmonizing with him as the song progressed. Juliet was bathed in a gentle white light, and even Chief Vick was caught up in the glory, her sensible jacket suddenly a swath of rainbows.

The song went on, swirling around Lassiter like warm ocean waters, like a breeze on a summer day, like a bathtub full of really fine coffee… like an especially good afternoon at the shooting range…

The Pineapple Of Bling became all colors, almost sparking with energy and yet so soothing. It was the most soothing experience he'd ever had, which is to say the _only_ soothing experience he'd ever had, on account of being so mean and nasty and bitter about his incompetence.

Shawn let go of The Pineapple Of Bling, which hovered in mid-air, emitting its own harmonization with the singing police officers.

Images of smoothies, churros… quatro quesos dos fritos… every popsicle flavor known to mankind… nachos… monkey bread _oh dear God_ monkey bread… he gasped at the flashes of these foods he had never fully appreciated before but now could _see_ in all their glory: he could taste them all simultaneously.

Lassiter was melting, _melting_… only unlike the Wicked Witch of the West, he was also expanding… his heart and mind were expanding… and he was…

He was…

Happy.

Yes.

_Happy._

He wept.

Spencer let him weep, and gradually the others brought the song to a close. Patting Lassiter's head, he released his hold on him and handed him a pineapple-imprinted tissue.

The Pineapple of Bling returned to Spencer's grasp, and with a _tsk_ and a head-shake he somehow made it disappear.

Lassiter questioned nothing.

He saw _all_ now.

He continued weeping, and O'Hara came over to pat his shoulders and hand him more tissues.

"You told me," he sobbed. "You told me I'd understand some day."

"I did," she agreed soothingly. "And isn't it better now?"

"Yes," he wailed.

Spencer smiled beneficently, all graciousness indeed.

"I should have done this sooner, my friend. I should have enlightened you sooner. But you had to be _ready_ for the Pineapple of Bling."

"How…" he sobbed, "did you… know I was… ready?"

"Teenaged girls wanted you dead," Spencer said simply.

Lassiter blew his nose. "That's… fair."

O'Hara kissed him on the cheek. "You're going to be just fine, Carlton. You'll see."

Chief Vick approached. "Take the afternoon off, Detective. Tomorrow is another day."

He got up unsteadily, still shaken to his soul, but extended one grateful, albeit tear-dampened, hand toward Spencer. "Thank you, Spencer. _Thank_ you."

Spencer hugged him, and Lassiter didn't shoot him. "Finally you have come to believe the most important thing of all."

Lassiter was still teary-eyed. "What is it?"

Placing a hand to his chest, Spencer said magnanimously, "It is simply this: your heart hearts mine. No—" he held out his other hand to stay the automatic protest. "It's all right. I understand you're still shy. Just be well, Lassie my man. Promise me you'll be well."

"I will now," Lassiter declared, wiping one last tear from his cheek. "I will now."

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**E N D**


End file.
